Hummingbird Heart (7 page)

“Hi…yes…well, that's what Dylan wants, so I suppose… Dinner?” Mom broke off, frowning. “Just a minute.” She stood and walked out of the room, taking my phone with her.

“Mom!” I followed her.

She put her hand over the phone. “I'd like some privacy.” She stepped into her bedroom and closed the door.

I sat down on the hallway floor. All I could hear was an occasional murmur.

Finally the door opened, and Mom stepped out in to the hall. When she spoke, her voice was as brittle as autumn leaves. “Well, we're meeting him tonight at the hotel. For dinner.”

“Tonight?”

“He's only here for a few days. Some conference.”

“I said I wanted to see him on my own.”

Mom nodded. “I know, I know. But he said he wanted to have us both there.”

I scowled. Mark and Mom would probably have some big gosh-it's-so-good-to-see-you-again conversation and start talking about all their old friends. Though maybe not, since she didn't seem exactly happy to hear from him. “Why both of us?”

“He said he wanted to ask you something.”

“Ask me what?”

“How the hell would I know?” She shook her head, as if she was taking back the harsh words. “He said he wanted to wait until he saw us.”

I rubbed one ankle with my other foot. My big toe was poking out of a hole in my sock. Maybe he wanted to spend some time with me, to get to know me. “Do you think he might want to invite me back to Ontario with him? For a visit?”

“Would you want to go?”

I studied the hole in my sock. “Would you let me?”

She hesitated. “Let's cross that bridge when we come to it.”

“Mom? What was he like back then?”

“Oh, Dylan. It was so long ago.”

“Yeah, but you've never told me much about him.”

“I've shown you a picture.”

“I know, but still. Obviously you knew him pretty well, well enough to—you know.”

“I didn't know him as well as I thought,” she said.

I wondered why she never wanted to talk about him. “Well,” I said, watching her face carefully. “You
slept
with him.”

She shrugged. “We were kids, Dylan. I was
sixteen
, for god's sake. Your age. Anyway, you'll meet him yourself in a few hours.”

I flopped onto my bed and watched her walk out the door. Tonight. I'd actually meet him tonight. My
father
. It was so strange—Mom never called him that; she always just said “Mark.” But these last few days, ever since his phone call, I kept catching myself thinking of him in that way.

I stared up at the ceiling. I could see dead flies through the white glass of the lampshade. Gross. God knows how long they'd been there.

I wondered if he thought of me as his daughter. Probably not. My mother had always been very clear that Mark had been a casual fling, a one-night stand. The pregnancy had been an accident, and he had never wanted to see me, didn't want to be involved. He'd never paid a penny of child support, that was for sure.

So why did he want to see me now?

n
I
ne

Mom pulled into the hotel's underground parking lot, neatly parked the car and turned off the engine. “Ready?”

“Ready as I'm going to be.”

Karma glanced at me, her dark eyes narrowed and her expression unreadable. She unbuckled her seat belt and slid out of the car. Mom was checking her hair in the mirror and putting on lip gloss.

I got out of the car and started walking toward the parking lot entrance, a few steps behind Karma.

“Check this place out!” Karma said over her shoulder. She broke into a run and raced ahead, up the hill to the hotel and through the sliding doors into the lobby.

Mom put her arm over my shoulder. “How are you feeling, baby?”

Like I might throw up
. I shrugged her arm off. “Fine. I'm going to…” I gestured in the direction Karma had gone, and sped up, breaking into a jog to catch up with her.

“There's no need to be like that,” Mom called after me, but I didn't look back.

In the hotel lobby, Karma was staring at some wooden carvings in a glass case. I stood beside her. I was so on edge my teeth were practically chattering. “Hey.”

“Hey. Pretty fancy place, huh?” She lowered her voice. “He must be rich to stay here.”

“I guess.” A tall woman walked past in a pale blue dress and high heels. I glanced at my reflection in the display case. I was totally underdressed in my cords and sweater.

Mom's reflection appeared over my shoulder. She brushed my arm with her fingers and sighed. “Look… I'm sorry I snapped. I know this dinner is a big deal to you.”

To her too, it seemed to me. She was checking her reflection in the glass of the display case, turning her head first one way and then the other. Mom was pretty—great smile, perfect skin, long wavy hair, nice figure—but she didn't usually fuss about her appearance. She lived in jeans or cargo pants, tank tops and hoodies—totally casual—but tonight she was wearing one of her wacky dress-up outfits from Julia's thrift store: a short black skirt over black leggings, combat boots, and a low-cut sequined top that showed too many tattoos and too much cleavage. “Quit checking yourself out,” I said irritably. “It's not a date, you know.”

She looked away from the glass quickly and gave a forced laugh. “Just wondering if he'd think I'd changed much. It's been…”

“Yeah, sixteen years.” I scowled. “I've noticed. Anyway, Mom, he's not here to see you.”

I saw her flinch, her eyes widening and the skin under them tightening for the briefest of seconds. She forced a smile. “I know he isn't.”

“Well then.” I had a feeling I'd just hurt her more than I'd meant to and I didn't understand why. I didn't understand my mother at all. “He's seen pictures anyway,” I pointed out. “So he knows what you look like.” And me too, I thought.

She flushed. “Dylan. Look, about those pictures…”

“What about them?”

She didn't answer right away, and all at once, I knew. “You never sent them. Right? You never sent him a single one.”

“Dylan. Listen.”

“You lied to me.” My voice came out high-pitched and shaky, and I clenched my fists, trying to stay in control. “God, Mom! You're always going on about honesty, blah blah blah, and you're so full of crap.” Posing for this year's picture, two days ago, while she knew the whole time that she wasn't going to send it.

Mom was looking at me, her fingertips pressed against her lips, eyes shining with tears. I stared back and felt like she was a stranger. “I can't believe you lied to me about this,” I said. “I can't believe you never sent the pictures.”

“He didn't deserve them.”

“That's not the point! I wanted to send them. I thought you
had
sent them.” My eyes prickled with hot tears and I blinked them away angrily. “You had no right to do this.”

“Dylan, come on. It's not like he's ever been a father to you.”

“At least he was honest,” I said. “You
lied
to me. You've lied to me every year. Letting me take those photographs. Telling me you'd send them.”

“He probably wouldn't have written back.”

“That's not the point!” I balled my hands into tight fists. I'd never hit anyone, ever, but for the first time in my life, I felt like hitting my mother. Grabbing her shoulders and shaking her. I hated her. Lying to me and acting so self-righteous about it. What did she know? Mark was here now, wasn't he? So maybe he'd been thinking about me too.

Karma was staring at us both, wide-eyed and silent. She always got really small and quiet whenever anyone fought. Me and Mom, Mom and her boyfriends.

I turned my back to my mother and spoke directly to Karma. “Come on, Karma. We'd better go find him.” I put my arm around her shoulders and steered us toward the restaurant. I hoped Mom wouldn't follow, but of course she did.

“Just the three of you?” asked a young woman.

“We're meeting someone.” Mom scanned the restaurant and I followed her gaze. “That's him,” she breathed. “Over there. Oh. My. God.”

She was staring at a man sitting at a square table by the far wall. He was playing with his water glass, twisting it slowly around, but as we watched him he looked up and his eyes met Mom's. He stood quickly and stepped toward her.

“God,” Mom whispered again. “He hasn't changed. Short hair, but otherwise…and he still has the same walk…”

And then he was there, right in front of us. He nodded briefly at my mother before turning to me. He stared for a long moment, his face unreadable. “You must be Dylan. I'm Mark Wheatcroft.” He turned to my mother, right hand extended. “Mandy.”

“I go by Amanda now.” Mom didn't take his hand. She pushed me and Karma forward. “This is Dylan, and this is Karma, my younger daughter.”

I shook hands with Mark, trying not to stare, and we walked over to the table and sat down, which was good because my legs had gone all loose and wobbly. Mark made a few polite comments about how great the hotel was and what a beautiful city this was and all that stuff. Mom was really quiet, and when she spoke, she didn't sound like herself at all. Karma kept kicking me under the table, and I did my best to ignore her.

I was sitting beside Mark, but I didn't want to stare at him, so I studied the cutlery on the table and snuck quick peeks.

He looked way older than I had expected. I'd been picturing him the way he looked in the old photo Mom had given me—a teenager, just a couple years older than me—but of course, he was in his thirties now, same as my mother. He looked older than her though, in his suit and all. Like a businessman. I guessed he was probably rich. Mostly what I was noticing was how much he looked like me. I kept checking off features: same thick dark eyebrows, same almond-shaped blue-green eyes, same square chin with a slight cleft—just a faint dent—in the center. Even his earlobes—they were small and kind of attached, just like mine. My skin was lighter though, pale like Mom's. His was more olive and his hair was cut short and graying a little at the temples, but it was roughly the same shade of dark brown as mine. Mom's was brown, too, but a little lighter and more reddish. Of course, she put henna in it, so it was hard to tell what color it really was.

Finally he spoke directly to me. “So you're Dylan.” He shook his head as if he couldn't quite believe it. “Bit of an odd situation, isn't it?”

“I guess.” Talk about an understatement.

“I'm starving,” Karma announced.

We all turned and looked at her and opened our menus with relief. Something safe to talk about. We managed to fill a good five minutes with comments about how delicious everything sounded, and another five debating whether to order the wild salmon with sesame butter or the Thai noodle salad. Mark moved his hands around a lot when he talked and he kept picking up things from the table—a salt shaker, a napkin—and playing with them. I wondered whether he always did that or whether it meant he was as nervous as I was.

The server came and took our orders. I glanced at the menu. “Thai salad.”

Mom raised her eyebrows. “That's got chicken in it. Are you eating meat now?”

“Does it?” I frowned at the menu. “Just a salad then, I guess.” I couldn't imagine eating anything anyway.

Finally, the server left and there was a long awkward silence. Mom cleared her throat. “So, what do you do these days, Mark?”

“Lawyer.” He turned his water glass around, leaving wet rings on the table.

Mom raised her eyebrows. “Just like the old man after all.”

Mark laughed, but he sounded uncomfortable. “Well, teenage rebellion is fine, but I couldn't really do construction forever. And you, Amanda?” He shook his head. “Well, I guess I already know that, don't I? You run a cleaning business. That's how I found you. Nice website, by the way.”

“I do photography too.” Mom sounded defensive.

“You're still into that? Really?”

Mom's voice was a little sharp. “Why not?”

“No, no. That's great, really. I'm impressed.” His head tilted, questioning. “So you must be busy. Working, looking after two kids…”

Mom hesitated for a moment, her lips pursed. “Karma is Sheri's daughter. Sheri Russell, remember?”

He nodded. “I know. In fact, that's how I…” He broke off and hesitated for a moment, glancing at my mother. Her eyes were narrowed, lips pale, every muscle tense. He cleared his throat and looked away, turning to face Karma. “I'm so sorry, Karma. Lisa—my wife—we heard about your mother's accident from an old friend. We hadn't seen Sheri in years, but I used to know her well. I was so sad to hear about what happened.”

Mom put an arm around Karma's shoulder.

Karma shrugged her off. “You knew my mom? When?”